


Death Revisits

by silentplanetgirl



Category: 80 Days (Video Game 2014), American Civil War RPF, Historical RPF, Le tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours | Around the World in Eighty Days - All Media Types
Genre: American Civil War, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, M/M, Not Beta Read, One Shot Collection, Period-Typical Racism, Slow Burn, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2020-11-02 09:24:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20698799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentplanetgirl/pseuds/silentplanetgirl
Summary: It has been a little over a year since the valet, Jean Passepartout, returned to London with his master, Phileas Fogg, having won a wager for 20,000 pounds by travelling around the world. On a trip back from a lecture in Cambridge, as their carriage rattles through Hyde Park, Passepartout is reunited with one of the more beloved NPCs from the original game. Romance, heartbreak, angst, and eventual healing ensue.





	1. An Unexpected Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is going to be a short boi. I recently replayed 80 days and decided to revisit a storyline that I've wanted to write a fic about for five years now. This is a small self indulgent project on my part, and it is NOT beta read, so...yea. If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, please note them in the comments.

It was raining in London when Death and I were reunited. My master, Monsieur Fogg, and I were on the way back from Cambridge. We were passing through Hyde Park where, less than a year earlier, we had touched down having won a wager with Monsieur Fogg’s peers in which we attempted to travel around the world in 80 days or less for 20,000 pounds.  
The year since had passed in something of a blur. Interviews, lectures, banquets, invitations, and, of course, the knighting, almost all of which had seen me working tirelessly in the background, arranging travel plans, answering cards and telegrams from the press, and accompanying my Master to any engagement at which I was needed. It was in this last capacity in which I had found myself being employed as our carriage rattled through the park on that soggy afternoon. Monsieur Fogg was quiet, and thoroughly exhausted after a weekend of merriment with his old school fellows. He napped in the carriage while I squinted at the outline of the trees outside. It was then that I saw him, like a ghost, huddled beneath a large stone arch with his collar pulled high over his neck. At first I thought I must have slipped into slumber myself. But the more I looked the more certain I was of my own lucidity. I signalled for our automaton to stop and they obeyed. Noting the lack of protest from my still sleeping master, I pulled up my collar and quietly exited the cab.  
The figure was now crouching beneath the arch, it’s shoulders heaving with what were either coughs or sobs. I felt a pang of sympathy tinged with apprehension in my chest. Could this figure be the same confident, flirtatious young man I had met when we passed through New Orleans. The young figure had obviously heard me approach, for he glanced warily over his collar. The moment his green eyes met mine, my heart fell into my stomach.  
“Octave? Is that you?” I asked.  
His eyes softened almost immediately. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a sneeze. I grabbed him by the shoulder to haul him into the carriage but stopped as I remembered my master. Cursing myself, I turned back to the young man apologetically.  
“God, Octave, how long have you been in London?”  
“I just arrived,” he murmured. I noticed for the first time how thin he was. His eyes were glassy, and his lips were turning blue.  
“Are you ill?” I asked.  
He shook his head. “No, just cold.”  
“Passepartout?” I turned around with a start. My master had poked his head out of the carriage. I took a sharp breath inward.  
“Sir! My apologies!”  
“Who is this?” My master asked, squinting through the rain. Octave straightened himself.  
“My name is Octave…” he paused, “L’Affranchi.”  
My master raised his eyebrow. “You’re American?”  
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Monsieur L’Affranchi helped me when I was lost in New Orleans, Sir.” This was a lie, but a small one. To his credit, Octave barely flinched.  
My master’s expression softened. “Are you now in a similar predicament Monsieur L’Affranchi?”  
Octave nodded and, to my relief, my master motioned us to come inside. We hustled into the carriage. Octave was silent as I tended to my master and explained that Octave had only just arrived in london.  
“You’ve not brought any luggage?” Monsieur Fogg asked.  
Octave shook his head. “No, sir.”  
“Have you been robbed?”  
At this, Octave flashed me a small embarrassed smile, or at least the shadow of one.  
“No Monsieur, I simply left in a hurry.”  
Monsieur Fogg shot me a quizzical glance. “Has your friend a place to stay Passepartout?”  
Octave’s expression lifted slightly even as she once more shook his head.  
My master pressed his lips together and nodded curtly. “I owe you a great debt, Monsieur, for helping my man in New Orleans. Would you like to stay downstairs?”  
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Octave replied, looking relieved. My Master gave a small bow and leaned back into the darkness. The carriage rattled on.


	2. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octave, Passepartout and Sir Fogg arrive back at the house in London. Passepartout has a brief moment alone with his master, and Octave prepares to tell the story of how he ended up in London.

Once we arrived back at Monsieur Fogg’s house, I helped my master out of his car. Once I’d removed his coat, and gotten him seated in front of the roaring fire, I dashed downstairs to let in our guest. Octave was standing in the downstairs entrance. I quickly pulled him in.  
“You’re drenched,” I murmured in French. “How long have you been standing out there?”  
Octave pressed his lips together. “About 2 hours. I didn’t know where to go. I honestly didn’t even know that was London. I thought I was somewhere in the countryside.”  
“That’s Hyde Park,” I whispered as I began to unbutton his coat. My hands were shaking. I couldn’t help but feel as though something had gone terribly wrong in the year since we’d last met. Noticing my nervousness, Octave gripped my hands.  
“Mon cher, I’m sorry if my being here has made things difficult. I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Truly.”  
I shook my head weakly as I removed his coat. “My room is the first one on the left. My nightshirt is hanging on the chair. Put it on. You can leave your wet things outside.” I glanced up. “I’ll come find you once he’s in bed.”  
I returned to Monsieur Fogg in something of a daze. We quietly retreated up to his bedchamber. As I folded his clothes and put out his outfit for tomorrow, Monsieur Fogg’s voice finally jerked me out of my own thoughts.  
“Passepartout, this savior of yours. He is no criminal, is he?”  
I shook my head. “No sir. When I met him, he was a servant, like me.”  
Monsieur Fogg raised his eyebrow, “And he is—” his voice trailed off. I knew immediately what he was referring to, and pressed my lips together with not a little defiance.  
“His mother was a slave. His father was her master.”  
I think it might have been better if I’d remained silent. Monsieur Fogg looked somewhat shocked.  
“Is that a common practice?” He asked.  
“It was before their Civil War, I’m sure.” I replied. “He’d know better than I, sir.”  
My master shook his head. “Well, I’ll not ask him. You would do well to do the same.”  
“I’d never dream of it, sir.” I rejoined curtly.  
Once my master was settled into bed, I stoked the fire in his room, removed his daytime clothes and went back downstairs. I left them out to dry, and then went to the kitchen to put together some sandwiches. The cook, who had gone to bed before us, had just been on a shopping trip earlier that day, and the pantry was completely filled. I placed the sandwiches on a tray, grabbed a large bottle of brandy and quickly made my way to my room.  
Octave was kneeling by the stove, warming his hands, and he started as soon as I entered the room.  
“Mon cher,” he murmured, “I’m sorry about this—”  
I waved away his apology, and within a few minutes, we were seated together on the floor with the tray between us. I poured the two of us glasses of brandy, which he took eagerly, only pausing briefly to raise it in thanks before he downed it in one gulp. Now that I could see his face more clearly in the light of my room, I was truly able to take stock of the changes my friend had undergone in the year since I’d seen him. For the first time I noticed the dark bruises on his knuckles, the still-healing cuts on his lip, and the dark circles ringing his eyes. When I had last seen him, he’d been vivacious, warm, his green eyes tinted by only a shadow of the horrors he’d experienced during the war. Now, that shadow had come to eclipse him almost entirely.  
“O-Octave,” I murmured.  
He shot me a nervous glance. “Yes?”  
“How—What are you doing in London? What happened? Your hands—” My own sense of dread silenced me as the young man’s expression darkened.  
“It is not a nice story, Mon cher,” he whispered. “And you are already distressed—”  
“It is your silence that distresses me,” I interrupted, perhaps a little too curtly. I immediately regretted not taking care to temper my fear-fueled irritation. “Octave, Please, you confided in me when we were in New Orleans. I hope I have not proven myself unworthy of your trust in the hours since we were reunited.”  
Octave gave a ragged sigh as he took another long sip of brandy. “I’m sorry, mon cher. It is still difficult for me to tell.”  
I immediately felt a pang of guilt at my own forwardness. “You may omit as much detail as you please. I ask only for a...general outline.” I paused, briefly wondering if even a vague recounting was too much to ask. I decided that yes, it was. I rose to my feet. “I—Never mind—I shouldn’t ask you to speak of that which is painful. I’m sorry, I’ll—”  
“Sit down, mon cher, please,” Octave interrupted, waving away my apology.  
I obeyed, cautiously, and took my place next to him.  
“I—If there is any part of it you wish to omit, only say the word. I won't press you. I’ll even take the story to my grave with me if you ask—” My voice caught in my throat as I felt his cold, stiff fingers weave into mine. I instinctively clasped them, doing my best to warm them.  
“Thank you, mon cher,” he whispered.  
I bit the inside of my cheek as I nodded, watching as he sat back to begin his tale.


	3. When the Shadows Lengthen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octave tells Passepartout what prompted him to leave Louisiana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo ya know how this series is marked with a warning for graphic violence and period typical racism? This is that chapter. In it, Octave describes some of the events surrounding the 1872 Louisiana gubernatorial election, an event which most students of American history might refer to as a “clusterfuck,” if they'd ever heard of it. Actual adult human historians who HAVE heard of it might refer to it as a “War crime ridden dumpster fire.” All the figures named in Octave’s story are actual people, except for his father’s wife and his siblings.  
All jokes aside this chapter is HELLA angsty but there is some hurt/comfort stuff at the end, I promise.

“Things actually began to change a few months after you left,” Octave began. “We had the election for our next governor. I went with some of my friends who had fought with me during the war to be registered.”  
“As what?”  
“Voters. Our candidates were Mr. William Pitt Kellogg and Captain Caesar Antoine of the 7th Louisiana Regiment Infantry.”  
I raised my eyebrow. “Were they both part of the same party as President Grant?”  
Octave nodded, his face brightening. “I knew Captain Antoine. He’s like me. His mother was the daughter of a great king in Africa before she was enslaved. His father was free.”  
“Was he her owner?” I asked.  
“Yes, but his father is black.”  
I blanched. “And yet he owned her and...?” My voice trailed off. I couldn’t help but feel a bit sickened at the thought of how common this sort of arrangement must have been in the time of slavery. I thought of my own Maman, with her dark eyes, and greying coily hair, and my father, who was married to a woman of his own race when I was conceived. Scandalous as my parents’ courtship was, at least Maman had a choice in the matter. I had a sinking feeling that her enslaved counterparts across the Atlantic were not afforded the same luxury.  
Octave continued, apparently oblivious to my horrified reaction.  
“I was so excited, Mon Cher. I thought now that once I was able to vote, things would be different. It felt like I was being freed all over again.” The joy that the memory coaxed into his voice made me want to weep. But I held back my tears and continued to clasp his hand, warming the cold, bruised flesh between my palms.  
“I can imagine,” I replied softly. “Did your candidate win?”  
The light in Octave’s eyes faded almost immediately. “Yes...well...he would have won. He was sworn in in January. That’s when the trouble really started.” He glanced up at me. “After the election, we went up to visit Madame Olivier’s family.”  
“The mother of your half siblings?” I asked.  
Octave’s expression darkened into a look that was almost venomous. “Yes. They live in Grant Parish, near a little town called Colfax.”  
My ears perked up upon hearing the name. I couldn’t help but feel as though I’d encountered it before, though I could not say where.  
“Is it...a very famous town?” I asked.  
Octave gave a loud snort. “No mon cher, I wouldn’t say so. It didn’t even have a proper name until 1869.”  
“The family of the woman you mentioned, Madame Olivier, are they...kind?” I had a feeling that I knew the answer to that question, but I vainly hoped that I was mistaken.  
“The Leclercs? No,” Octave answered sharply. “They’re monstrous.”  
“You couldn’t have stayed in the city?” I asked weakly.  
Octave pulled his knees closer to his chest. “She asked that I to come. She said she needed help with the children. I didn’t think—” He paused to lift his hand to his head and wince. The brandy glass fell from his hand, spilling onto the floor. I caught it before it could shatter.  
“Octave? What’s wrong?” I asked.  
“Nothing—I’m sorry—I’ve just been having headaches. It hurts to keep my eyes open.”  
“Would you like to lie down?” I asked.  
He nodded.  
Once I’d helped him into bed, I was unable to stop myself from pressing his hand to my nose and offering a few prayers.  
After a few minutes of silence, I gently whispered his hand. “You don’t have to keep going.”  
Octave bit his lip and shook his head. “You deserve an explanation from me.”  
“You owe me nothing,” I replied adamantly. “I should have just let you go to sleep. You must be exhausted.”  
“It doesn’t hurt as much now that you’re here, mon cher,” he interrupted. “Besides, I don’t—I haven’t been able to sleep much recently.”  
I glanced up at him, my concern having been heightened. “They did this to you, didn’t they?”  
Octave said nothing, his expression having hardened once more.  
“It was a beautiful day when they came. Spring had just begun. They came to the house and asked for me, and Madame—” he swallowed hard, “—she told them I was in the kitchen. That’s where they found me.”  
I felt a tight knot of horror form in my chest. “Your father’s wife t-told them where to find you?”  
The disgust in my voice earned me a somewhat withering look from my old friend. “I’m not surprised she did. She hates me. She knew what her brothers were going to do. They gathered all of us in the square. Some of us, they used for target practice. That’s what happened to the lucky ones. The rest of us were beaten or burned alive. Her sister's husband left me alone because he thought I was dead. I crawled into the fields to hide, and that’s where Henri found me.”  
“Your half-brother?” I asked.  
Octave nodded. “He’s eight. He’s a sweet child. He gave me water. He gave me the house key and put me onto a calache back to New Orleans. From there, I was able to get my savings and go north to New York.”  
“Why didn’t you stay in New York?” I asked.  
Octave shook his head in disgust. “That whole country is cursed, mon cher. Even in the north, the soil is soaked in blood. It has been for centuries.”  
“Every place has its history,” I responded. “America’s not unique in that respect.”  
“I don’t care,” he muttered coldly. “When the war ended, they told me I was free, that I was an American. They lied. I will never, ever be an American the way they are. Nor do I want to be. I don’t know why I picked up a gun to defend them in the first place. I—” His voice broke off before he could finish and his eyes filled with tears as the weight of his anger washed over him.  
I leaned forward to pull him into an embrace, but suddenly stopped myself. “I—If you’re uncomfortable—” I never got to finish. He grabbed onto my shoulders like a drowning man. I returned his embrace.  
“I’m a wicked person mon cher. All my life I’ve been told to forgive people, to love those who hate me. Up until a few days ago, I think I probably could have kept myself from hating her—”  
“You’re not wicked,” I whispered. “You’re not.”  
We sat in my bed for what felt like hours. I lost track all the empty statements of comfort I murmured into his ear. Eventually, his breathing grew more steady, and his sobs faded into silence.  
“Is this not your bed?” He asked, glancing up at me.  
I nodded weakly. “Yes, don’t worry. We have a spare room. I’ll just take my night shirt and—”  
“Would you mind staying?” he asked.  
I blinked at him in amazement, unsure of what I had just heard.  
“P-pardon?” I stammered.  
The scandalized look on my face earned me the first real, warm smile I’d seen on his face since we’d been reunited.  
“Mon cher, if I’d known that my being beaten half to death would turn you into a blushing virgin, I’d have done it earlier.”  
I pressed my lips together sternly. “Don’t say that.” I muttered. “Also, how can you flirt with me at a time like this? You were sobbing in my arms a few moments ago.”  
The color in my friend’s face deepened as blood rushed to his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “If I can joke about it, it means I survived it. If I don’t, I’ll just assume they killed me after all,” he paused. “Although, if they did, then I suppose that would make this place heaven.”  
Now it was my turn to blush. “You’re incorrigible,” I hissed.  
“Shut up and get into bed with me,” he retorted gently.  
I sighed, and quietly pulled my spare nightshirt from the set of drawers by the door. Monsieur Fogg had recently invested in a large queen sized bed for my own bedchamber. It was meant to be something of a thank you present. I’d often wondered what it might be like to share it with someone. I only wished it were happening under happier circumstances.  
I cleared away the brandy glasses and tray, and gingerly joined my old friend beneath the covers. As he drifted off to sleep, I held him close and thought of our time in New Orleans. I thought of the few thousand pounds I’d saved in my dresser to visit Paris, and quietly decided that the money might be better spent on a physician. Octave’s headaches had left me almost shaken as his story had, and I wanted to get him looked at as soon as possible.  
Just before I went to sleep, I managed to get in a few prayers. I prayed for my Maman, Monsieur Fogg. I even managed to pray for the souls of Octave’s attackers, as much as it rankled me to do so. The last thing I whispered to myself was an old Anglican prayer I’d heard at mass that Sunday with Monsieur Fogg.  
O Lord, support us all the day long, until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes, and the busy world lies hushed, and the fever of life is over, and our work is done. Then in thy mercy grant us a safe lodging, and a holy rest, and peace at the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, there it be.  
The Colfax Massacre was an actual irl thing that happened in April of 1873. It was initiated by former Confederate soldiers who would go on to form the "White League." it's not something you'll have to learn for your US History final BUT in the town of Colfax it's like one of those big important historical events that no-one talks about. There are memorials honoring the perpetrators of the massacre (yes, you read that right) still standing around the town. You can read about these Extremely Cursed™ monuments at the link posted below.  
https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2003/07/the-colfax-riot/378556/  
oh and Captain Cesar Antoine was an actual person :D, and a massive badass. He managed to not get killed during Reconstruction (which, for those of you who aren't US History nerds, is considered A Feat™ if you are an African American politician living in the deep south after the Civil War,) and died in Shreveport LA at the ripe old age of 85 :). So yea, check out his wikipedia page. He's a cool dude. It's not surprising to me that Octave is a fan.


	4. Explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Passepartout offers his employer a long awaited explanation.

I rose the next morning before my companion was awake, got dressed, and went upstairs to tend to Monsieur Fogg. He was already awake when I entered the room to help him get ready for breakfast.  
“Passepartout,” he murmured with a nod. “How is our guest?”  
I bit the inside of my cheek as I picked up his jacket.  
“He is still asleep,” I responded.  
“Good, looked as though he needed it,” Monsieur Fogg replied. “Did he tell you anything as to what he’s doing in London?”  
I’d been dreading this question. On the one hand, I felt I owed my master at least some explanation as to why an acquaintance from our travels had suddenly appeared in London, injured and without any luggage. However on the other hand, I felt as though Octave had told me the story in confidence, and I didn’t know how much he would have wanted me to reveal. I decided to keep the details in my own telling of the story to a bare minimum.  
“You’ll remember that it was an election year, when we were last in America.” I began.  
Monsieur Fogg nodded rather eagerly as I helped him put on his shirt. “Yes, rather important one, according to the Times.” He paused to admire the newly ironed cuffs. “Of course, they’ve said that about every one of their elections since the war ended,” he murmured. “So what about it?”  
“Well there was to be an election in the Southern States as well. They hadn’t had one since before the war.”  
My master looked up with a start. “Oh...oh bugger it all. Of course. By God, I’d nearly forgotten.”  
I nodded, perhaps a bit too curtly, as I dusted off Monsieur Fogg’s trousers. “Yes. So all those people who’d been freed during the war had their chance to vote.”  
Monsieur Fogg ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, that’s something. How did it go for them? Did their fellow win?”  
I nodded grimly. “He did win. And that’s where the trouble began.” My telling of the rest of the story passed by in a blur. I left out any mention of the candidates, Madame Olivier, and how Octave had survived. Even as I was telling him the sanitized version of the tale, my master’s face darkened into a barely concealed look of disgust. He shook his head bitterly.  
“Those Americans in the south,” he muttered. “Savages, brutes, even with all their talk of gentility—monstrous.”  
In any other circumstances I might have winced at my master’s words. I’d have taken the time to gently remind him that all cultures had their own unique set of standards, boundaries, and customs, and that those customs ought to be respected. But then I remembered Octave’s declaration from the night before, “I will never, ever be an American the way they are. Nor do I want to be,” and was silenced. I quickly finished dressing Monsieur Fogg, and accompanied him as we made our way down to breakfast. It wasn’t until he’d finished his eggs that my employer spoke again.  
“So, our guest, are things really all that awful for him in the rest of the country? Why didn’t he simply stay in New York?”  
“New York is a hotbed of Confederate sympathies sir, and things aren’t exactly going well in the rest of the country either.” I sighed.  
Monsieur Fogg shook his head once more, but didn’t answer.  
I suddenly remembered Octave’s headache. “Sir? There is something else.”  
My master cast a quizzical glance my way.  
“Your physician, Doctor Dalrymple. How much would it cost to have him visit?”  
“150 pounds or so,” Monsieur Fogg replied. “Not including medicine of course.”  
I winced. I’d about 300 pounds saved up in my dresser downstairs. Perhaps I’d be able to borrow some from Monsieur Fogg and pay him back out of my wages.  
“Passepartout? Are you alright?” my employer asked.  
I nodded.  
“Whatever’s the matter?”  
“It’s Oc—Monsieur L’Affranchi. Last night when he was telling me what had happened, he kept getting headaches. He said it hurt to keep his eyes open.”  
Monsieur Fogg’s face fell into a look of mild concern. “Do you think he’s truly ill?”  
“Injured, perhaps. He was beaten half to death by those men, it’d be a miracle if he survived without at least one injury.” I paused as my thoughts turned back to the wages in my dresser. “I can pay Doctor Dalrymple. If it ends up being more than I have, you can take it out of my wages—”  
“My dear fellow, I shall do nothing of the sort!” Monsieur Fogg interrupted.  
“At least let me pay for some of it,” I pleaded. “It’s my fault we’re in this situation. If I hadn’t gotten lost in New Orleans—”  
“Good lord, Man, we won a wager for 20,000 pounds, and the damn book we wrote is still flying off the shelves in the Strand. Money is no object.”  
“I’ll at least pay for the medicine,” I said as I straightened myself to my full height. The effect was hardly intimidating, as Monsieur Fogg was still a head taller than me. Still, he let out a sigh.  
“Pay as much as you are able with what you have. I’ll not dock your wages. Haven’t you a mother to visit?”  
I cast my eyes downward in embarrassment, but didn’t object, and Monsieur Fogg nodded in satisfaction.  
“Now,” he murmured, “I must be off. I’m meeting Logan and Wooster at the club for lunch, and I wanted to get some reading in.”  
I nodded and quickly began clearing away the breakfast things. “Shall I come?” I asked.  
“It’s the club, my dear man, not India,” Monsieur Fogg replied with a withering glance. “You ought to call Doctor Dalrymple. The sooner we get your friend on his feet again the better. He'll need his health if he plans to make a life for himself in London.”  
I nodded, recognizing that he wished for some time amongst his peers. Within half an hour, I was watching as a mechanized calache pulled away from the house. I set my teeth, and quietly made my way downstairs.


	5. Oversight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Passepartout announces his intention to get Octave to a physician, and Octave has...thoughts...about it.
> 
> *btw I went back to Chapter 3 and edited down the age of Octave's brother, Henri, to 8, since I realized that no adult in their right mind would consider a boy of 15 a "child" in 1873. It would be the equivalent of a 40 year old baby boomer referring to a 25 year old as a "child" today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID SOMEONE ORDER A HOT STEAMING PILE OF HURT/COMFORT WITH A SIDE OF ANGST?! P: Delicious.

Octave was still dead to the world when I opened the door to my room. Not wishing to disturb him, I settled into my usual place at the kitchen counter to mend one of Monsieur Fogg’s jackets. However, I’m ashamed to say that I was unable to keep myself from periodically looking into the room, and got very little mending done as a result. Eventually I transported my operation into the bedroom, and cautiously settled into the rocking chair by the stove. Two hours passed. I finished mending the shirt and set to work on some ironing. The hours continued to tick by. Suddenly, the silence of the room was broken by a voice from the kitchen.  
“Jean, dear, are you in?”  
I felt my heart leap into my throat. I’d almost forgotten that I wasn’t the only one in the house. Mrs. Catherine Leary, the cook, had stepped out that morning after breakfast. We’d missed each other earlier while I was helping Monsieur Fogg get ready, but I’d been too lost in my own thoughts to notice. I quickly placed the iron back on the stove and exited the bedroom.  
Mrs. Leary was still removing her jacket when I re-entered the kitchen.  
“Heavens lad, you’re pale as a sheet,” she exclaimed. “Did I frighten you that badly?”  
I shook my head even as my color deepened. “No Madame.”  
“How was Cambridge?” she asked absently. “You didn’t let those awful friends of Master Fogg’s give him too much trouble, did you?”  
I shook my head weakly. “I did my best.”  
Mrs. Leary raised an eyebrow, perhaps sensing something amiss in my manner.  
“Jean, is everything alright?” She asked.  
I began to wrack my brain for an excuse before I realized that my hesitation was only serving to make me seem more suspicious. However before I could tell the whole story, I was interrupted by a sleepy sounding voice coming from the door.  
“Good Morning mon cher—oh—” Octave’s color deepened as he switched from french to English. “Good morning...um...am I interrupting something?”  
Mrs. Leary clapped her hand to her mouth in shock, before turning to me with an accusatory look in her eyes. “Jean François Passepartout, what, in the name of the Virgin of virgins, is the meaning of this?”  
I blanched. I’d not given much thought as to how a meeting between Octave and another member of the household staff might transpire, but of all the scenarios I could have imagined, this was far from the most ideal.  
“Madame Leary, this is Octave L’Affranchi. I met him when Monsieur Fogg and I were travelling through New Orleans. We were reunited with him last night on our way back from Cambridge. He’s come to build a life for himself in London, and will be staying with us until he is able to do so.”  
Mrs. Leary raised an eyebrow. “Sir Fogg knows about this arrangement?”  
I nodded eagerly, but alas, the lady’s face remained unchanged. Indeed, I do believe her expression hardened.  
“Does he know that Mr. L’Affranchi is staying in your room?”  
I immediately felt all the blood in my body rush into my ears. “Madame, I—”  
“That is my fault, Madame. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I was indisposed last night. Monsieur Passepartout was kind enough to offer me his bed when I was unable to make it to a guest room.”  
Mrs. Leary’s expression immediately softened. It seemed that she’d noticed something, because she quickly approached him and looked hard into his eyes over her spectacles, gently steadying his jaw with her hand.  
“Your eyes...Goodness lad, did you take a nasty fall or two?”  
Octave winced in embarrassment. “I was hit.”  
“With what?”  
There was an awkward pause.  
“I—I honestly don’t remember. It’s been a few days. I believe it was a bar of some sort.”  
Mrs. Leary took a sharp breath inward as she withdrew her hand. “Jean, your friend’s been concussed.”  
“Con—what?” I stammered. Truth be told, I hadn’t heard this word in english before.  
“A Concussion?” Octave muttered dryly. “That...actually explains a lot.”  
“He shouldn’t be out of bed,” Mrs. Leary retorted, somewhat curtly, before turning back to Octave with a look of maternal concern in her eyes. “What happened to you, love?”  
“Long story,” Octave murmured.  
“Have you had breakfast?”  
Octave shook his head as Mrs. Leary shot me a particularly cutting look.  
“Well, into bed with you,” the lady ordered. “Jean, go help your friend. I’ll get lunch started.”  
I cast my eyes downward in embarrassment as I ushered Octave into the room.  
“Why do you look so sad?” He murmured gently as he crawled back into bed.  
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about breakfast,” I mumbled in French sitting on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t want to wake you.”  
“Don’t worry mon cher,” he assured me, clasping my hand and bringing it to his lips.  
I blushed and looked away, too embarrassed to meet his eye.  
“So what did Madame Leary say? You have a Conca-Concush—”  
“Une commotion cérébrale, mon ami.”  
My eyes widened in recognition. “Bien sûr, that makes sense.” I paused in horror as I remembered his recollection of his injury. “You said you were hit with a bar of some sort?”  
“Yes. I think it was made of metal. I’m not sure,” Octave replied.  
“So, ‘Jean,’” He remarked with a grin, sitting back up and leaning in closer to me. “Is this the name you hate so much?”  
My color deepened. “It’s easy to hate your name when it’s as common as ‘Jean.’”  
“Would you like it better if I were to say it lying beneath you?” he whispered wickedly.  
I had to smile in spite of myself. “I don’t know if I should be outraged at your forwardness Monsieur, or relieved that it wasn’t beaten out of you.”  
Octave let out a laugh. “It would take more than an iron bar to keep me from teasing you.”  
This was the second—no—the third time that Octave had shifted the conversation from a difficult topic by flirting with me. Perhaps it should have upset me more than it did, but I was too happy to see even the faintest shadow of the man I had met in New Orleans. Unable to stop myself, I instinctively squeezed his hand. He smiled a little sadly and leaned back on the pillow. We sat in comfortable silence for a while. After about 45 minutes, the silence was broken by a knock on the door as Mrs. Leary poked her head into the room. On the tray she carried two bowls of soup.  
“Here, I put together some potato soup,” she said brusquely, setting the tray down on the bedside table.  
“Thank you, Madame,” I replied, taking the tray and setting it down before Octave, who attacked it with the energy of a man who has only just realized how hungry he was.  
I shot an apologetic glance at Mrs. Leary, expecting to find her irritated at my guest’s lack of thanks. But I was surprised to find her brow furrowed in a worried expression, rather than a frustrated one.  
Soon the soup was finished. Octave leaned back in his bed, looking somewhat embarrassed. “Merci, Madame. I’m sorry for my lack of manners.”  
Mrs. Leary smiled a bit sadly. “Don’t worry, dearest,” she said gently as she lifted the tray from my friend’s lap.  
I smiled at her thankfully as she took her leave. I wanted to call after her to ask...I don’t know what. In the end, all I could manage was another murmured expression of gratitude. I don’t know if she noticed.  
“Mon cher? Is everything alright?” Octave asked in French.  
I nodded. “How do you feel?”  
“Better,” he replied, pressing his hand to his head. “I wish it didn’t hurt so much to have the lights on.”  
“Your eyes need rest,” I whispered.  
“I miss looking at you.”  
I smiled and traced the bruises on his knuckles while my stomach filled with butterflies. “I have to leave soon to call Dr. Dalrymple. I promised Sir Fogg I would.”  
Octave raised an eyebrow in concern. “Is Monsieur Fogg ill?”  
“No, old friend, it’s for you, not for him,” I chided.  
Octave’s face reddened immediately. “You don’t have to.”  
“Octave, those men beat you nearly to death. I’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t call a doctor.”  
“We know what’s wrong with me. It’s a concussion. There’s nothing else to examine.”  
“There could be something we’ve missed.” I protested. “I didn’t even realize you had a concussion until this morning.”  
“What does that have more to do with? My condition, or your oversight?” Octave spat. His voice had taken on an icy tone that made my heart fall into my stomach. I believe that the unwarranted harshness of his words to me were not lost on him, for his face quickly fell into a look of regret as soon as he realized what had been said.  
I’m happy to say that I was able to shake off my surprise fairly quickly. Unfortunately, anger quickly rose in its stead. “You’re not my employer Monsieur,” I replied coldly. “Monsieur Fogg is paying me to adhere to his wishes, not yours.”  
“Laurent, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”  
I took my leave before he could finish. Mrs. Leary looked at me with surprise, the contents of the conversation having been completely lost on her.  
“Jean? Is everything—”  
I excused myself and hurried up the stairs, my face continuing to burn as I sought to complete the rest of my duties in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch me be a terrible fic writer who abandons the fic at this point without getting to the sexy parts.  
jk, I'm gonna try to end this fic on a happy note, I promise.


	6. Doctor Dalrymple's Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Dalrymple comes to visit.

I’m sorry to say that placing a call to Dr. Dalrymple did almost nothing to quell my anger. The Doctor was a good man, but he was gruff, and the loss of his hearing during his time in the Crimean War meant that I had to repeat myself at length over the phone, in order to get my message across. Still, the Doctor hardly noticed my ill temper, and greeted me as warmly as he always had.  
“Passepartout my good man! How are you? Are you calling on behalf of Sir Fogg?”  
“I am, sir. But—”  
“What’s the old fellow gotten himself into this time?” The doctor interrupted.  
“Nothing, thankfully. It’s—  
“What?! Speak up man!”  
“Sir Fogg is not ill! He’s—”  
“Well if Phileas isn’t ill, then what’s the matter?” The physician huffed.  
I took a deep breath as I collected myself.  
“We have a guest at the house who’s in need of medical attention,” I said slowly.  
“Oh! Bully! Why didn’t you say so in the first place? I’ll be down first thing this evening, once I’ve finished with the Debenham Widow, the Jammiest of Jams that woman is.”  
I smiled a little tightly, thanked him, and hung up the phone with a sigh.  
As I continued to perform my duties two dissenting voices took up residence in my brain, one scolding me for my sharpness with Octave, the other assuring me that my tone had been justified.  
*He’s ill, he’s not in his right mind,* The former whispered.  
*He’s not mad, he’s concussed.* the latter retorted. *Either way, he has no excuse to treat you like this.*  
*I’m sure it was just a moment of irritation. It won’t happen again.*  
*You don’t know that. You only knew him for one night before this. Perhaps this is simply his character. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d been tricked like this.*  
I winced, and pulled the emergency brakes on the two trains of thought rattling through my mind. I managed to pass the rest of the afternoon focused on my duties as a valet, and nothing more. At around 4 PM, Sir Fogg returned from the Reform Club.  
“Evening Passepartout,” he said as I took his coat. “How is our guest?”  
I decided to tell him nothing of the quarrel. “He’s doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances. Mrs. Leary took a look at him. Apparently he has a concussion.”  
Sir Fogg raised an eyebrow in concern. “Hm, did you call Dr. Dalrymple?”  
“Yes Monsieur. He’ll be coming this evening once he finishes visiting the Widow Debenham.”  
Sir Fogg let out a low cough. “Ah. Of course” I nodded tersely, trying and failing to keep my mind off my own situation.  
The rest of the evening was a quiet affair. Sir Fogg had his usual meal of mutton and potatoes for supper. We’d both settled down in front of the fire, him reading a book, and I, mending a shirt, when there was a knock at the door. I immediately sprang from my seat to open it, and was greeted by a tall, dark figure in the doorway.  
Dr. Isaac Dalrymple was a white bearded giant of a man who’s gruff manner did much to hide his gentle nature. His father, apparently, had been an officer in Bombay, who sent scandal rippling through the Empire when he announced his engagement to the youngest daughter of a recently deposed Maharajah. Dr. Dalrymple had been raised among the military bungalows of the City of the Seven Islands before being sent to Eton, Cambridge, and then to Crimea for military service. Now he was an old man, though the spring in his step and wit belied his advanced age.  
“Master Phileas, you old devil!” the Doctor exclaimed. Dalrymple had known the Foggs since Monsieur Fogg was a child, and still addressed him with the curious lightness in tone that most adults use when addressing young people. Monsieur Fogg did the opposite, speaking to Dr. Dalrymple as a student might speak to a beloved school master.  
“Dr. Dalrymple,” my master said with a smile. Once I had taken the good doctor’s coat, the two men clasped each other warmly by the hand.  
“Dr. Dalrymple, may I get you something?” I asked, hanging his coat by the door.  
“You may get me to my patient! Where is this unfortunate fellow?”  
“I will leave you to your craft, Doctor. We can discuss payment once you’re finished.” Sir Fogg proclaimed. With that, Dr. Dalrymple and I made our way downstairs.  
“Why’s Sir Fogg’s staying in the servants quarters?” The doctor muttered.  
I felt the heat rise into my cheeks. “Well, he’s really my guest. We met when I was travelling around the world with Monsieur Fogg.”  
“Hm,” the doctor grunted. “So where’s he from? Paris? Peking? Yokohama?”  
“New Orleans,” I answered.  
“Ah! An American! What’s he doing in London? Most people I know tend to go the other way across the Atlantic.” With this the Doctor let out a chuckle.  
It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t informed the Doctor of Octave’s situation. I decided to fill him in. “He’s a Freedman, Docteur.”  
Doctor Dalrymple raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “So a former slave?”  
“Oui, Docteur.”  
“Well if he’s not a slave anymore, then why’s he here?”  
“Things in the United States have become far more dangerous for former slaves, especially those seeking to exercise their newfound citizenship.” I replied. “Those who seek to do so are punished.”  
“And he thinks he’ll be better treated here?” the Doctor replied grimly.  
I took a sharp breath inward. It was easy to forget about the nature of the Doctor’s parentage, what with Dr. Dalrymple’s blue eyes, well pressed jacket, and aristocratic British accent. But his mother’s skin was as dark as that of my Maman, and growing up in Bombay, no-one had ever let him forget it. Wealth and success had bought him prestige in London, but no self-respecting English gentleman would ever offer his daughters hand to the Doctor in marriage, and no woman would wish him to sire her children.  
“There will be those who despise him, but he will be safe,” I responded weakly. “Their disgust will not translate into the kind of violence he has already suffered.”  
“God willing,” the doctor murmured. Now we were both in the Kitchen. Mrs. Leary was preparing dinner, and waved us past so that she could better focus on her art.  
I hung behind as the Doctor approached my room.  
“Will you join me Passepartout?” Dalrymple asked.  
I shook my head, remembering the harsh words that Octave and I had exchanged earlier. “We quarreled earlier today, Docteur, I don’t think he’ll want to see me.”  
“Ah, nothing too serious I hope. Should I be worried?”  
I shook my head. “His ire is for me, Docteur, not you.”  
The Doctor nodded, tightened his grip on his kit, and entered the room. I went back upstairs to rejoin my master.  
The Doctor remained in the room for three quarters of an hour before rejoining us upstairs for supper. When he emerged, he looked very grave. I stood up from my chair immediately.  
“Is it very bad?” Monsieur Fogg asked.  
The Doctor shook his head. “That Mrs. Leary was well on the money. He is concussed. He’s also got two bruised ribs, a fractured skull, and a broken wrist. Frankly Phileas, it’s a miracle that the lad’s internal organs are intact.” Here the Doctor paused. “He will live, barring any catastrophes. If he’s to die of anything it’ll probably be boredom. I’ve put him on strict bed rest. No reading, no writing, no frolicking with the ladies or drinking in the pub, just good food and plenty of sleep.”  
Monsieur Fogg winced. “Poor Fellow.”  
“‘Poor Fellow’ my foot. He’s lucky to be alive. He told me a bit of what he remembered happening.”  
“Barbaric creatures, those American rebels,” my master muttered.  
“Not creatures, Phileas,” the Doctor corrected, “Only men. Anyway, I’m famished.”  
“Will you join us for dinner?” Monsieur Fogg asked.  
“Happily! I must raise a toast to that cook of yours. Right bright thing she is.”  
Monsieur Fogg and Dr. Dalrymple sat at the table while I served out the food. Dr. Dalrymple immediately launched into a rather animated conversation about an automaton he’d encountered while visiting his mother’s family in Bombay.  
Once the empty dishes on the table had been cleared away for brandy and cigars, Dr. Dalrymple sat back in his seat with a sigh. “Pity. I’d always contemplated visiting America. I do not know if I care to do so now.”  
“Go to the north, it’s not as bad there.” Monsieur Fogg answered.  
“If I go south, I should like to find that poor lad’s father and knock his teeth in,” the Doctor growled.  
Sir Fogg smiled as he refilled his glass and lifted it.  
“To your health, Doctor, and all of ours. Passepartout, would you like a glass?”  
I shook my head, “Not at the moment, Monsieur, but thank you.” Dr. Dalrymple’s ability to coax such uncharacteristic enthusiasm and warmth from Sir Fogg had always left me mystified. My master took my refusal in stride. The two men slowly rose from the table, as Dr. Dalrymple prepared to make his way home.  
When I brought the elder physician his coat, I noticed a small slip of paper clasped in his hands.  
“Passepartout, a moment,” he murmured, motioning me forward.  
I couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous as I approached the doctor, although I couldn’t imagine why he’d share anything with me that he hadn’t already shared with Monsieur Fogg.  
“You said you and Monsieur L’Affranchi had a quarrel?”  
I nodded, not a little sheepishly.  
The Doctor let out a low chuckle. “I’m not going to scold you, my dear man. L’Affranchi is a very strong willed fellow. I’m frankly surprised you haven’t quarreled more.”  
I glanced down at the bit of paper in the Doctor’s hand.  
“Sir? If you don’t mind my asking, is that—?”  
“Contraband,” the Doctor interrupted with a smile. “I found him scribbling away on it when I entered the room. It seems he found the stationary in your drawer.” Doctor Dalrymple’s smile quickly faded. “If you plan on letting him stay in your room, I’d recommend keeping that sort of thing away from him. He shouldn’t be writing, not while he’s in the state that he is. It overexerts the encephalon.” The Doctor glanced back up at me and held out the paper. “That being said, I did promise him I’d pass this on to you.”  
I gingerly took the letter and opened it. It read as follows. 

Dearest Laurent,  
I know you probably do not wish to speak with me at the moment, and I can’t say I blame you. I’m frightfully sorry about what I said earlier today. I had no business speaking to you the way I did. <s>Please speak to me</s> <s>I can’t bear</s> <s>I don’t mean to sound desperate</s>  
Please accept my apology.  
All my love,  
Octave <s>Olivier</s> L’Affranchi

“Passepartout?” The Doctor’s voice pulled me back to reality.  
“Pardon Docteur,” I answered, swallowing the lump that was forming in my throat.  
“I can put on my own coat. Go see your friend.”  
I thanked him, handed him his coat, and immediately dashed downstairs. Mrs. Leary shot me an encouraging glance as I re-entered the kitchen.  
“Go on in, Jean, he’ll be happy to see you.”  
I cautiously opened the door. Octave’s face was buried in a large pillow. I gingerly sat on the edge of the mattress.  
“Octave?” I whispered.  
He glanced up in surprise.  
I bit the inside of my cheek, wondering if the Doctor had made a miscalculation. “If you’d like I can come back la—”  
My old friend threw his arms around me before I could finish, burying his face in my shoulder.  
“Merci, mon cher. I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely into my shoulder. I could tell by the strain in his voice that he’d been weeping.  
“There’s no need. None at all,” I assured him. “Are you feeling better?”  
“Yes,” he answered softly. “I’m sorry if my note was a bit forward, I was just worried, I didn’t know—”  
“Did you just apologize to me for being forward?” I asked, feeling a little amused. “You, of all people?”  
Octave let out a deep, heartfelt laugh. I felt my breath catch in my throat. I hadn’t heard him laugh like that since we were back in New Orleans.  
“Would it be too forward of me to kiss you?” he whispered.  
I shook my head, smiling in reassurance as the distance between our faces closed.


	7. No Longer Abash'd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the unannounced hiatus! Here's some smut to make it up to you all. There's a bit of plot, with lots of porn to wash it down! I'm gonna try and post at least one more smutty chapter before this fic is finished. It looks like it's gonna end up being 10-11 chapters, and will update....whenever I have time honestly. I'm in my last year of school, so it may not be very consistent. This was originally supposed to be 2 chapters, whoopsies. Anyway, I decided to condense them into one scene for the sake of efficiency, also this leaves more room for more ANGST, PLOT, and SMUT later.  
anyway, CW: Body-Image issues, and slight d/s dynamic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for death mention, war mention, and MYSTERY scars. Also Octave dealing with trauma via flirting and Passepartout being a good wholesome boi, so more of the same basically :)

The weeks following Dr. Dalrymple’s visit were uneventful for the most part. I spent my days assisting Sir Fogg, ironing trousers, mending shirts, answering letters, taking calls and the like. Of course, much of the latter I now did in the company of Octave, who had taken up permanent residence in my room. Any amorous activities that might have followed the kiss we shared on the evening of the Doctor’s visit were largely hindered by Octave’s condition and his need for rest, with one notable exception. A week after Dr. Dalrymple’s visit I discovered a dog-eared volume of poetry in Octave’s carpet bag. Printed in black ink on the inside cover were the words “Leaves of Grass.” Scrawled beneath the title was a note.  
  
_**For my Carpus,**_  
_**"Scented herbage of my breast,**_  
_**Leaves from you I glean,**_  
_**I write,**_  
_**to be perused best afterwards.”**_  
_**Ever loving,**_  
_**Calamus**_  
  
______________“Who is this from?” I asked.  
“What?”  
“This note in the front cover—”  
“OH! Ignore that—” Octave quickly swiped the book from my hands as his face flushed a deep shade of scarlet.  
I blinked at him in confusion. It had occurred to me, of course, in New Orleans, that Octave must have had other lovers. He was handsome and charming in a way that even the most chaste of any sex might appreciate.  
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” I murmured.  
Octave’s expression softened almost immediately. “It’s alright—It was a very long time ago.”  
“How long?” I asked, moving closer to him on the bed.  
“Almost a decade ago,” Octave replied.  
I took a deep breath inward, trying my best to conceal the spark of jealousy that had wormed its way into my chest.  
“Back during the war?”  
Octave nodded and buried his face in my shoulder. “Don’t be envious of dead men on my account, mon cher.”  
My jealousy immediately gave way to guilt. “Oh...I’m sorry.” Unsure of what to say next, I decided to let the matter drop. “Is the poet very gifted?” I asked innocently.  
Octave chuckled as he leaned back onto the pillow. “Monsieur Whitman is gifted, but he is not very...reputable.”  
“How do you mean?”  
At this, Octave smiled wryly. “if you read it, you’ll see what I mean.” ?”  
My old friend let out a low laugh. “Turn to page 132.”  
I obeyed, turning to one of the more dog-eared pages. “In Paths Untrodden...is this one of the poems to which you were referring?”  
“Yes.”  
I stared intently at the verse, and immediately felt my face flush as its meaning washed over me.  
“Oh!”  
Octave smirked. “How fortunate a man is Monsieur Whitman that he’s able to draw such noises from you.”______________  
______________I cast a withering glance his way as I closed the book. “Don’t resent him so, just because he has better manners than you—”  
Before I could finish, Octave had pressed his hand to my cheek and pulled me into an ungentle kiss, drawing a small gasp from me once he pulled back.  
“Would you endeavor to teach me manners, ______________mon cher?” ______________he murmured.  
I smiled playfully, planting a small kiss on his hand. “Are you willing to learn?”  
“Only if you’re willing to make me,” he hissed.  
I’m ashamed to say that my cock immediately twitched within my trousers, even as I felt a pang of worry that my friend’s condition might get in the way of my catering to his desires.______________  
______________“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whispered.  
Octave let out a low laugh and began to unbutton my waistcoat. “I trust you, now shut up and help me get you out of this.”  
I obediently seized his hands, kissed them, and then took over working the buttons of my vest. Once it was off I rose to drape it on the chair but before I could, it had been unceremoniously ripped from my hands and thrown across the room.  
“Octa—” I began, before Octave silenced me with another kiss.  
“Forget the damn waistcoat,” he chuckled as he gingerly attempted to remove his nightshirt. I moved in to help him pull off the garment. His chest, dusted as it was with freckles, was also still covered in bruises that hadn’t yet begun to fade. For the first time I also noticed the thick tendrils of scar tissue snaking around his side.  
“What’s wrong mon cher?” He asked gently.  
“Those wounds—are those from the war?” I replied softly.  
The young freedman’s face fell slightly. “No. Merely the consequences of youthful indiscretion.” He answered dismissively.  
I chose not to push the matter further, as I didn’t want to bring forth any unwelcome memories. Instead, I merely smiled and gently pressed him into the bed. I began by lavishing kisses on his neck and ears, eliciting soft moans of longing from my friend as I carded my fingers through his hair. Though I initially sought to proceed with gentle caution, it seemed that the young freedman had other ideas. Octave’s breathing took on a short, desperate quality as tried to pull me in closer, however in this he overexerted himself and fell back, clutching his broken wrist. I immediately sat up in alarm.______________  
“Mon cher?” ______________I whispered.  
Octave’s color deepened as he clasped his hand. I immediately observed that his eyes were glazed over with tears of frustration and pain.  
I took his hand in mine and gently kissed it. “Lean back,” I murmured, “let me take care of you.”  
He assented. I planted a kiss on his neck and slowly worked my way down, lavishing special attention on every bruise, every scar, every freckle. Octave closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath, prompting me to pause and glance up at him.______________  
______________“Am I hurting you, ______________mon cher______________?” I asked.  
“Please,” Octave gasped, “don’t stop.”  
I couldn’t help but smile before returning to my ministrations.  
“How long have you wanted this?” I chuckled.  
“S-since New—ha!” he gasped as I took him into my mouth. “Oh God, Laurent, please—Don’t stop.”  
I felt my face grow warm as I suddenly grew very self conscious about my own performance. Octave laced his fingers through my hair in a vice grip and began muttering garbled curses in a mixture of French and English under his breath. I stared at him in wonder. All the tension, sadness, anger and fear that I’d seen pass over his face in the last hour had vanished, and was now replaced by an ecstasy that made my mouth water, and I quickly realized why he’d been so eager to engage in amorous activity.  
God knows everyone has something they like to drown themselves in, to keep themselves from dwelling on the past. I’d seen this tendency myself in many of my comrades from the Franco-Prussian war. Some drown themselves in liquor, others in the white smoke of an opium pipe, and still others in the ample thighs or backside of a working youth.______________  
“Mon cher.______________.. you’re so beautiful,” Octave gasped. “You’ll finish me off early if you carry on like this.”  
I was flattered, and also strangely relieved at my own competence. I inhaled deeply and slid my tongue on the underside of his shaft, prompting him to let out a small moan. Wishing to avoid disturbing anyone, I slid my hand over his mouth. This backfired slightly, as it only seemed to arouse him more. To make matters worse (or better perhaps?) he began to suck on my fingers to whet my appetite. With one hand on his mouth and another massaging his perineum, I had absolutely no way to relieve myself. Nevertheless, I soldiered on, even as my jaw began to cramp. I may have been lacking in some of the prowess traditionally attributed to my fellow Frenchmen, but never could it be said that I wasn’t a persistent lover.  
“Laurent—I’m—AH!”  
Octave’s hips bucked upward as he spilled into my mouth. I swallowed with a slight grimace at the bitter taste, and gently snuggled up beside him on the bed, planting a kiss on his bare shoulder.  
“I do hope I didn’t disappoint you,” I murmured gently, nuzzling into him. “I am rather behind my time.”  
The green-eyed man scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous ______________mon cher.”  
“______________You are very kind.”  
“As kind as you are beautiful? I think not.”  
I let out a low laugh as my color deepened. “See, you’re perfectly capable of turning me into a blushing mess even when you aren’t at death’s door.”  
“Would you like me to return the favor?” Octave whispered, eyeing the bulge in my trousers.  
“Oh no dearest, I don’t want to inconvenience you—”  
“Why ever not? Here, if you insist on being that much of a gentleman, at least let me help you.”  
I sighed in agreement, and carefully began to remove my trousers. As I undressed, I couldn’t help but take note of certain features that I dearly hoped wouldn’t disqualify me from ever lying next to my friend again. The return to London with Monsieur Fogg had marked the return of regular mealtimes, and a far more sedentary lifestyle on my part. As a result of these changes, I’m afraid to say that I’d become rather round. Not to say that I cut much of a dashing figure when I’d met Octave in New Orleans, but at the very least I could still sprint the length of a city block without running out of breath.______________  
“Mon cher, ______________are you quite alright?” my companion asked. Apparently the shame in my eyes had betrayed me.  
“I’m—Yes, I’m fine. It’s nothing.” I murmured as I folded up my trousers and crawled into bed.  
“Good,” Octave whispered wickedly, pressing me into the mattress with surprising strength. His kiss was hungry, desperate, hot and wet. The way in which his teeth grazed my tongue made me gasp.  
“Please—______________cher—______________don’t over-exert yourself” I breathed with a chuckle in between kisses.  
Octave licked his lips hungrily as he cupped my face in his hands.  
“You sweet silly thing, what must I do to convince you that you’re perfect?” He whispered as he wrapped his un-bandaged fingers around the throbbing organ between my legs. I let out a small yelp as I felt his thumb massage the head of my cock, which was now slick with my seed.  
“I—Ah!,” I whimpered as all my blood rushed to my face. “You needn’t flatter me.”  
“Who says I flatter you?” He growled playfully, tightening his grip on my cock with a strength that brought tears to my eyes. “I only tell you what I see.”  
I let out another low moan of desperation as his delicate fingers continued to work the weeping flesh. I soon began to imagine those fingers in other places, pushing me down by my hip, spreading me wide, working me open to be used.______________  
“Mon dieu!”______________I whined, my hips bucking as I spilled into his fist.  
We both collapsed back onto the bed panting, the edge of our amorous yearnings finally quelled. Octave nuzzled against my shoulder with a sigh, prompting me to take him up in my arms again.  
“You’re a treasure,” I whispered.  
Octave blushed. “I could say the same of you,______________cher”  
______________I suddenly felt a great swell of emotion in my chest as I glanced down at the man in my arms. He was bruised, gaunt, and completely spent, but his green eyes were bright and full of warmth. I gently cupped his face in my hand and planted a kiss on his forehead.  
Octave smiled, wiped his hand clean on the discarded nightshirt and buried his face back in the crook of my neck.  
We lay there for a few minutes, tangled with the sheets, listening to the sound of our breathing, before finally drifting off to sleep.


	8. Prospects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octave's condition improves, and our two boys begin to learn more about eachother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: War mention, slavery mention, tooth-rotting fluff, and ALL MY 80 DAYS HEADCANONS!

Octave’s condition began to improve rapidly in the days after the evening we spent together. Doctor Dalrymple was back that weekend to follow up his first examination. This time, Octave was finally able to get out of bed and dress himself, with some help, in his old clothes, which I’d washed, mended, and pressed the day after he arrived.

“I do hope no-one notices that I used the wrong thread.” I muttered as I anxiously tied Octave’s cravat and glanced down at the buttons of his waistcoat. “I ran out of the navy blue yesterday morning and couldn’t find any extra at the store, so I had to use black.”

My friend shot me a look of endearment, “I doubt the Doctor will care.” 

“I’ve utterly failed you,” I lamented, my nervousness having deafened me to his reassurances. “I should’ve gone out to find you something more suitable yesterday but I didn’t want to disturb you while you rested, and it’s already so hard for you to move I—”

Without warning, Octave gently cupped my face in his hands and pressed his lips against mine. I immediately felt my face grow warm with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. 

“ _ Mon doux fou, _ ” he whispered. 

I was about to open my mouth to respond when there was a knock on the door.

“Yes?” I asked nervously.

“Jean, dear, the doctor’s waiting for Mr. L’Affranchi in the parlor,” Mrs. Leary replied. 

“Just a moment,” I replied.

Octave gently squeezed my shoulder with his unbandaged hand. I tried to smile, even as my heart heaved itself into my throat. In less than a minute, we were making our way up the stairs to the parlor. 

Dr. Dalrymple was standing by one of Monsieur Fogg’s bookcases, where I’d stored a large jade figurine I’d purchased in Beijing. He glanced up at us as soon as we entered the room, and his face immediately brightened.

“Hullo Passepartout! And Monsieur L’Affranchi! My stars, you’re a new man!”

Octave bowed politely and reached out to shake the Doctor’s hand. “No small thanks to you sir.”

The doctor’s smile grew even wider. “You’re very kind. Now sit and tell me, how is your wrist?”

Octave’s wrist had spent the past week securely bandaged to a splint. He glanced at it witheringly. 

“It no longer hurts. I haven’t a clue how it looks underneath this.”

“So you haven’t taken it off then? Excellent. Hopefully we’ll have it off by the end of the afternoon.”

Octave’s face lit up. “Already? Thank—”

“Don’t thank me yet my dear chap,” the Doctor responded grimly. He then reached into his briefcase and pulled out two large packages. “The wrist needs to be kept still for six to eight weeks before it is healed. Now I’ve had too much experience treating you young people to trust that you’ll be able to make it through the week without doing anything foolish, so today I will introduce you both to a technique I learned back in the Crimea.”

Octave eyed the packages nervously. “So long as the technique doesn’t involve brandy, a surgical saw, and a cauterizing iron—”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous. I promise you my dear fellow, two months from now you’ll be able to give WG Grace a run for his money if you set your mind to it.”

The younger man stared at the doctor blankly. “Who?” 

“He’s a cricket player,” I whispered.

“What?” Octave replied, nonplussed.

“What I meant to say was that you’ll have the use of your right wrist again in about two months time,” the Doctor clarified. 

“Well so long as I’m able to keep my arm, I have no objections.” 

Dr. Dalrymple let out a sigh. “We’ll see how you feel about that once this is over. Anyway, to the kitchens.” 

The three of us made our way down to the kitchens where the good Doctor finally opened his packages. In one was simply a bundle of bandages, while the other held a can labeled  _ Gutta Percha. _

“So what I’m going to do here is soak these bandages in Gutta Percha. I had it mailed in from Singapore this past week.”

“What is it?” I asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“Tree sap. Quite nifty. Back in my day we used Plaster of Paris,” Dr. Dalrymple replied. “Anyway, I’ll then wrap the bandages around your wrist, and once they dry, they’ll become hard like a shell. Now here comes the bad news, you’ll have to keep this on for two months.” 

Octave and I glanced at each other with not a little relief. 

“That’s it?” I said. “That seems fairly straightforward.”

“I didn’t finish. It can’t be removed, nor can it be dampened. Whenever you bathe you’ll have to bathe around it, or else it’ll begin to smell. You won’t be able to scratch any itches in that area either.” 

Octave wrinkled his nose. “Oh. How will I get it off once it’s healed?”

“You’ll come over to my office on Baker Street. I have tools there we can use to get the thing off. Once we’ve done that, I’ll treat you both to dinner and brandy to celebrate. How about that?”

I gaped at the Doctor, somewhat taken aback. “Monsieur, you don’t have to—”

“Nonsense, my dear fellow. This is non-negotiable. Now hold still.”

The first thing the Doctor did before soaking the bandages, was to check Octave’s arm for open wounds, which were almost certain to get infected were they to be sealed off. He then produced a solution of carbolic acid for purposes of disinfection and distracted us while it was applied by telling us stories of his time serving on the HMS Queen during the Crimean War.

“There weren’t many naval battles during your Civil War, were there Monsieur L’Affranchi?”

“There were a few in New Orleans. The Battle of Forts Jackson and St. Philip in April of ‘62. The Union took the city in that battle.”

I thought back to my own memories of the 1860s, when I’d still been living in Paris with Maman. “How old were you when the war started?” I asked.

At this, Octave’s face immediately shifted into a thoughtful expression. “I was born in the late 1840s, so I was only a teenager.”

I raised an eyebrow in surprise. “And yet you fought?”

“Eventually,” Octave laughed. “The local rebels told the Oliviers I wanted to fight, so my old master locked me in the cellar when the city was taken. I broke out.”

“How did you convince the Union Army you weren’t a spy?” the Doctor murmured in admiration as he poured Gutta Percha over the bandages. 

Octave grinned sheepishly. “Oh. I showed them where Madame Olivier’s brother was hiding in our old house with what remained of his company.”

I shook my head in amazement as the Doctor let out a chuckle. “Is this the same brother who tried to beat you to death?”

“The very same,” Octave replied with a grim smile. “I’m sure he would’ve tried to do so before the war, had Monsieur Olivier not intervened.” 

“But you were a child,” I murmured. 

“I was also the bastard son of his sister’s husband,” he replied. 

I shuddered. I myself had spent much of my childhood living with my own father’s family, though my father was tactful enough to introduce me as his ward rather than as his son. I briefly wondered how my paternal family might have reacted had they known my true identity. At least my father’s wife had been kind to me, though whether this was out of compassion or ignorance on her part, I never rightly knew. Suddenly, the voice of Dr. Dalrymple pulled me away from my own thoughts. 

“Have you and Passepartout compared notes on your respective military careers?”

Octave immediately sat up, his face a mask of confusion. “‘Respective’ military careers?”

I immediately felt all the blood in my body rise to my face. In the time we had known each other, I had never spoken to Octave of my own experiences during the Franco-Prussian war, which immediately preceded my own move to London. This was only partially due to the fact that the subject had never come up. I’ve never been the sort to reminisce in the presence of others, no matter how close they were to me personally. 

“There isn’t much to talk about with regards to my own experience,” I replied. This was a lie, and one obvious enough for even Octave to notice. His green eyes narrowed with worry as he stared at me with a quizzical expression. 

“Is fighting against one of the most formidable armies in Europe truly ‘not much to talk about?’” the Doctor laughed. 

“Perhaps if we’d won,” I answered plaintively. I couldn’t help but feel somewhat flustered. Octave was still looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. 

“War is always nasty. I can hardly blame those who would rather talk of other things,” he said gently. With that, he quickly launched into the story of his first Mardi Gras, where he played the god Ares. This led to a conversation on classical mythology, and by the time that finished, the plaster on the bandages had hardened them into a shell and the cast was complete. 

“How does it feel?” I asked anxiously. 

Octave shrugged. “It feels as though I were wearing a shield over my arm. It’s not bad.” 

“Just wait until it starts to itch,” the Doctor chuckled as he washed his hands. “By the way, I never asked, what are your plans for making a living once you’re well again?” 

At this, Octave’s face went blank. “Oh. Um...I don’t know. I was a footman when I worked for the Oliviers.”

“Do you think you’ll return to that?” the Doctor asked. 

Octave visibly recoiled. “No. No I think not.”

“Well then, once your wrist has healed, we can discuss your prospects over a glass of brandy,” the Doctor replied jovially. 

I thanked the Doctor effusively for his kindness, before seeing him out. Once he had left, I found Octave looking out the kitchen window at the sunny streets.

“Do you think we could go for a walk?” He asked, his green eyes sparkling. “How soon will Sir Fogg be returning?”

“Not for another few hours,” I answered. “However, I do need to be back before tea-time.”

“Where should we go then?”

“We could walk to Kensington Gardens,” I suggested. “You must promise to tell me if you begin to feel tired though.”

“I promise,” Octave said solemnly. “You lead the way.”

We slowly made our way down Savile Row, out of Mayfair, and towards the Kensington gardens. I pointed out the airships coming in from across the ocean, and travelling south towards the Continent. Eventually we settled to rest on a bench in a rather secluded corner of the park.

“I have a request,” Octave declared cheerfully. 

I raised an eyebrow, unsure of what to expect. “Go on…”

“Every day, until I get this damn thing off,” he said gesturing towards his cast, “I will ask you three questions regarding something I don’t know about you, and you have to answer them honestly.” He smiled defiantly at me. “I won’t let myself be put off by how distractingly charming you are.” 

“You already asked one question of me today,” I said with a laugh. 

“True. I’m still entitled to two more.”

“Very well,” I leaned back on the bench with a sigh. “What do you want to ask about?”

“Let’s start simply. Where were you born?”

“Paris, December 27, 1845,” I answered.

Octave immediately let out a laugh, then doubled over in pain because of his still-healing ribs. “Goodness. Aren’t you loquacious?” he wheezed. 

I smiled sheepishly as I helped him up. “It was fairly uneventful. My Maman was a laundress. My father was a farmer. When I was six years old, I was sent away to live with him.” 

“What about your mother?”

“They weren’t married. My father married his childhood sweetheart, but they couldn’t have any children. He told his wife that a friend of his from the army had died and left a child behind.”

At this Octave raised an eyebrow. “What was he doing with your mother?”

“She was very pretty,” I answered. “She’s still considered a handsome woman, or at least that’s what people tell me.” 

“If she’s your mother, she must be very handsome indeed,” Octave whispered with a smile. “Alright, third question.”

“Didn’t you just ask two extra ones?” I asked with a chuckle. 

“Are you going to deny the request of an injured man?” Octave sighed with a look of mock devastation. 

I shook my head. “Fine. Go on.”

At this, Octave cautiously glanced around to make sure no-one was nearby before bringing my hand to his lips, and fixing both of his green eyes on me. 

“Your name, Jean Passepartout, where does it come from and why do you dislike it?” 

“That is two questions,” I laughed. “But I suppose I must answer them. I was named ‘Jean’ because of my great-great-grandfather. He was a slave from the city of Saint-Louis-du-Senegal, and did not speak very good French. Anyway, his favorite color was yellow. When his son bought his own freedom and migrated to France, he named his son ‘Jean’ because he knew it would please his father, and the name has been passed down ever since,” I paused. “Furthermore, ‘Jean’ is the name of the saint whose feast day I was born on.”

“ _ Saint Jean l'Apôtre _ ?” 

“Correct.”

“And what about ‘Passepartout?’” 

“A passport was the first official document my great-grandfather received after buying his freedom,” I answered. “He wanted to move to Paris, and always felt he was more French than African, so he wanted a French name.”

“And why do you dislike your name?” Octave asked, leaning up against my shoulder and squeezing my hand. 

“I dislike ‘Jean’ because it is simple,” I said with a smile. “At any rate, it is not as nice of a name as Octave.” 

At this, I thought I detected a flash of resentful anger in Octave’s eyes. “The only reason I’m named ‘Octave’ is because I was the eighth child sired by my father with a slave,” he muttered. “It is the equivalent of naming one’s eighth cow ‘Octave.’” 

I leaned back to glance up at the trees. “When I hear your name, it makes me think of the Octave of Easter, or the term ‘octave’ as it is used in music, or the shape of the labyrinth in  _ Notre Dame de Reims.” _

There was a brief pause. Before I could turn to my companion to gage his response, I suddenly felt him press his lips against my neck. I immediately let out a sigh before pulling him closer to me. 

“Dearest,” he whispered. “Will you allow me to call you ‘Jean’ when we are together?” 

I let out a happy sigh. “So long as I can call you ‘Octave,’” I replied. “Have I satisfied your curiosity?”

Octave smiled warmly. His green eyes were clear and full of light. “‘Satisfied,’ isn’t the word I would use. I’ll not begrudge Sir Fogg his valet, but once you are done, I’m afraid I might be in need of your services.”

At this, I gently kissed him on the forehead. “As you wish. Let’s go home.”


	9. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO CHAPTERS IN 1 WEEK?! What kind of fic-writer am I?  
One who likes fluff, angst and emotional hurt/comfort, apparently. 
> 
> CW: Nightmares, PTSD, child-abuse mention, death mention, slavery mention

As Octave continued to heal, I set up a cot in our room, mostly to dispel the concerns of Mrs. Leary, who seemed to have grown more suspicious of our sleeping arrangements. However I rarely used it. Most nights, Octave and I slept in the same bed. 

It was on one of these nights that I found myself gently pulled from the depths of slumber by a murmur that echoed from the other side of my bed. Thinking that the noise had merely come from my dream, I tried to drift off back to sleep only to be jerked back into consciousness by an agonized scream of terror. 

“Octave?!” I asked, quickly turning on the light. 

My companion was curled up in a fetal position, shaking like a leaf. 

“Octave?” I whispered, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. His un-bandaged hand latched onto my arm in a vice grip. 

“Phillip,” He hissed, turning towards me with an expression of confusion and fear etched onto his face. “Phillip, we need to go. We need to go now. They’re coming.” 

“Octave, it’s me, Jean. No-one’s coming.” I assured him, shaking him awake. 

I don’t know whether it was the sound of my voice or the sensation of my hand on his arm, but his shoulders finally relaxed as he truly woke up. His face was still twisted into a look of pure, animal terror, and his forehead was damp with sweat. 

“Mon cher?” I whispered cautiously. 

“Where did they go?” He breathed. 

“No-one’s here. Only us.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes. I promise.”

It was that final affirmation that prompted him to immediately collapse sobbing into my shoulder. I wrapped him in my arms and whispered assurances to him in a mixture of French and English. 

Eventually, I was able to get him to take some sips from the glass of water I’d begun to keep for him on my bedside table. We sat together in silence for what felt like an hour, before he finally spoke.

“Forgive me, Jean, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

I gently planted a kiss on his forehead. “There’s truly nothing to apologize for.” 

“I don’t know where I was. I think it may have been Colfax. At first it seemed like it was before the war, because Philip was there—”

“Philip?” I asked.

“He worked in the stables.”

“What happened to him?” 

Octave’s face immediately darkened. “He tried to escape. They found him in the marshes. When they brought him back to the house, they made us all watch—” 

His voice broke. I cautiously pressed my lips against his forehead. We sat in silence for a few more minutes before he finally was able to continue.

“In the dream, we were watching them come to the quarters. They were looking for both of us. Some of them were hooded. The only one I recognized was Monsieur Leclerc.”

“Hooded?” I murmured. A distant memory from my travels with Monsieur Fogg suddenly rose to the surface of my subconscious. We’d stopped in Houston to rest and were scheduled to take a caleche to New Orleans the next morning. That evening, while taking a walk, I’d come across a crowd of hooded figures, making their way towards the slums, which were populated by freed slaves. They paid me no mind, and I immediately fled back to the hotel. Could it be that the hooded figures I’d encountered in Houston were the same as those described by Octave? I decided that now was not the time to press the question. 

“I’m sorry if I frightened you earlier, I just wanted to wake you.”

Octave shook his head. “I’m sorry for acting like such a child.” 

“Stop apologizing. You haven’t anything to be sorry for,” I whispered, kissing his bandaged fingers. “I’m a soldier too, you know. It’s not as though I’ve never had nightmares myself.”

Octave let out a skeptical sigh. “What time is it?”

I checked the silver pocket watch hanging from the headboard of the bed.

“3 AM,” I answered. “Do you often have dreams like this?” 

“When I was younger, yes,” he grumbled. “But it’s been years, I don’t know why they’re starting now.” 

“Well,” I replied, “these past few weeks haven’t exactly been easy for you.”

At this, Octave glanced ruefully at his still-healing wrist. “I was so proud, you know.”

“Of what?” I asked.

“When I was freed. So many had been broken before they could live to see their lives given back to them, but not me. I’d been smarter, stronger, faster, worthier; I’d earned my freedom, all while retaining the ability to enjoy it fully.”

“Of course you were worthy. All of you were.”

“I wish I’d thought of it like that,” he said with a bitter chuckle. “You sound like him, you know?”

“Philip?”

“No. Charles, my friend from the war. ‘Calamus.’”

“The friend who gave you the book of poetry?” I replied, remembering the note written in the cover of _ Leaves of Grass. _

“Yes. He was always saying things like that,” Octave answered, rubbing his eyes. 

“What else did he say?” I yawned, my curiosity having overpowered any jealousy I might’ve felt.

“Hm,” Octave murmured as he nuzzled deeper into my shoulder. “He talked a lot about moving north. He wanted to teach school in Philadelphia once the war was over.” there was a brief pause. “He would’ve been wonderful. He was so patient. I never understood why he put up with me.”

“Because you’re delightful,” I whispered. 

“You would’ve hated me, _ mon cher _,” Octave chuckled. “I was so angry, and I never knew when to stop talking. My master—“ he paused. “Monsieur Olivier always wondered what had happened to make me how I was. I heard him talking to the overseer about it. ‘Tibby was always such a sweet child. I don’t know what made her boy like this.’”

I blinked in confusion. “Tibby?”

“My mother,” Octave replied. “She was given the name by her first owner. I suppose Old Olivier thought it would be too much trouble to change it.”

“You should’ve given her a new name, like you did me,” I said, only half joking. 

“I wish I’d known her long enough to do that,” Octave laughed ruefully. “Madame Olivier sold her as soon as I’d been weaned.”

I shuddered in a mixture of disgust and disbelief, but said nothing more. The two of us sat in silence for a few more minutes before Octave spoke again.

“May I ask you one of my three questions?” he yawned. 

I shook my head with a smile. “Always. Though I think we ought to do away with the quantitative limit, seeing how determined you are to ignore it. You can ask me as many questions as you’d like.” 

“Why did you want anything to do with me?” 

I immediately felt my cheeks grow warm as I recalled our first meeting. “It’s not every day one has the opportunity to flirt with Death himself. Also, you were very charming.”

“I was very drunk,” Octave chortled, “fairly miserable too.”

“You told me that sometimes you didn’t know if you were alive or dead,” I recalled. 

“And you listened,” he murmured, staring up at me with glassy green eyes. “Can I ask one more question?”

“_ Bien sur _.”

“Why didn’t you try to take me to bed with you?”

I gave a thoughtful sigh. “It wasn’t because I was altogether opposed to the idea. Part of it may have been that I knew I would be traveling the next day. Also I was sharing a room with Monsieur Fogg. I felt it would be—”

“Unseemly?” Octave asked with a wicked grin. 

“...Unprofessional,” I corrected gently. “I surmised that such behavior would not have had a positive impact on my professional life. Furthermore, here in England this—” I gestured vaguely around us, “—is illegal. It is illegal in France as well, but the British are especially sensitive about such things. I knew nothing about American sensibilities, and didn’t want to find myself on the wrong side of the law of the country that was hosting me.” 

There was a brief pause as my companion meditated on my words.

“I hope you can forgive my reticence,” I whispered hopefully, planting a small kiss on the back of his neck. 

At this, Octave immediately turned around, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “I think I could be convinced to do so,” he sighed contentedly, wrapping his arms around my neck. “You’ll have to make it up to me.”

I sleepily pulled him into another kiss before pulling the covers up under our chins. 

“Gladly.”

I don’t know how long it took the two of us to finally sleep, but the last thing I remember is watching Octave slip into what I hoped would be a more fulfilling slumber, free from nightmares and ghosts from the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, yes I know the first iteration of the KKK was defunct by the time the Colfax Massacre rolled around. But Octave probably would have encountered them in New Orleans before 1871.


End file.
